


Love is a Day

by lovi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Breathing, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Eye Contact, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Love, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Post-Time Skip, SEX SCENE IS RELATIVELY SMALL, but not breathplay, hmmm, hmmm okay quick smut tags, just warm arankita lovin, this isn't smut-centric so keep yr h-word out of here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26371915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovi/pseuds/lovi
Summary: But just as the sun always rose in the east and set in the west, the weight of Aran Ojiro’s arm was bound to linger on Kita’s chest as he quietly slid out of bed in the coldest hours of the morning; the soft warmth of Kita Shinsuke’s fingertips were bound to gently dance along the small of Aran’s back before drifting into peaceful slumber.- - -a little arankita lovefic centered around a day's momentary passings
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Ojiro Aran
Comments: 11
Kudos: 65





	Love is a Day

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys, I really poured my heart and soul into this so I hope you enjoy.... :,)
> 
> arankita is an extremely comforting relationship for me and I wanted to use this to try and explore some of the reasons I find their love so calming: I love them separately and I love them together, in any form of love. this time I am exploring them in an established relationship post-time skip.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it and reading it back, really. I love wanna hear what you have to say!! drop a comment!! if you're reading this you're loved!!!

The earth was asleep, cold to the morning’s first conscious breath, the inevitable exposure of the lips to air that wasn’t sheltered by the body next to them. Moisture clung to the windows as the small snails clung to the overgrown bushes clung to the old farmhouse clung to the last moments of darkness and quiet. The slightest shift in bed playing thunder to a lightning strike that never came; the only light to be seen grazing red and gentle along the taller weeds and vegetation, reflecting dimly off their dewdrops. Kita Shinsuke was gently woken with the first chirp of the birds, eyelids fluttering open soft as lilies and arms sinking heavy as stones into the worn mattress. Half of the room was enveloped in the soft blue glow of early morning, their bed still cloaked in the darkness of the night before as though it were an afterthought, left on the back burner.

But the stove flame still burned gentle and warm, alive in the arm laid over his waist, slack and heavy. The man beside him lay on his side, set as a stone in the river—or better yet, the river itself; steady and calm, yet full of life. His chest rose and fell; lips parted gently, pressed soft into the satin of the pillowcase. He was a warmth Kita wanted to let flow into his lungs and carry throughout the day, decidedly shuffling closer beneath the single tangled sheet and up against his body; feeling the arm around him curve to lovingly caress his back, fingertips subconsciously dancing along the small of his spine. The chill of early morning was shut out by the protective gesture, the warm chest he nuzzled his cheek into, the glowing fire within that eternally warmed him. The familiar scents of cocoa butter, musk, and a faint hint of nutmeg clouded his mind, now fuzzy and warm with memory as he buried himself deeper into the soft pliancy of the pillows and mattress, one word rising to the surface of his consciousness and threatening to tumble over his lips: Aran. Aran, Aran, Aran.

The energy softened and culminated in a gentle kiss planted to the warm surface of Aran’s forehead, now faintly illuminated by the rosy rays of morning. Kita retreated and smiled to himself, his chest swelling with a comforting mix of fondness and pride as Aran lightly exhaled a puff of air through his lips, seemingly relaxing even more. The earth was warming, beginning to wake in the same way Kita had begun to rise from bed, turning on his side and trying his absolute hardest not to wake his lover. As he reached his edge of the bed, the arm rested along his side grew imperceptibly heavier, almost in a last effort. Kita’s heartbeat hiccupped and filled his arms with the exact fire he needed to start the day’s work, gently lifting Aran’s heavy arm as he quietly rose from bed. He began his morning stretches while his mind fondly combed through the warm recollections scattered across his crumpled bedsheets, eventually turning his gaze to their small, condensation-filled bedroom window: the red light was slowly yellowing, its reach far less acute and dim, however mostly undetectable to the inexperienced eye. It was these small noticings – the slight difference in the hue of sunlight, the now varied bird calls heard echoing across the field, the small family of deer grazing in the distance – that drew Kita to the pleasures of everyday life like a dog on a leash. Kita took a deep breath and began to quietly skim his bureau and closet for his work clothes.

\- -

The earth had warmed and blossomed into a beautiful cacophony of locust and cicada hums, the faint aroma of mud and fresh grass wafting through the window screen along the sun’s pale yellow rays, painting the white sheets in a collage of muted yellows and muffled blue shadow. Aran Ojiro awoke when the sun was halfway to its peak, warmed skin and sore muscles flowing gently beneath cool bedsheets like rocks beneath the flow of a stream, eyes fluttering open as arms stretched out and fingers ran through the tangle of linen. A mild flare of disappointment flicked over his soft features before dissipating: Kita wasn’t in bed. But Kita was working, _Kita has probably been working for the past couple hours now_. He laid in bed for a sweet moment before slowly rolling off the mattress and onto his feet, walking towards the bathroom.

Aran didn’t care for lying in bed when that warmth didn’t grace the side of his stomach like the sun on his skin. _Warmer, even_ , he thought as he leaned into the sink, cupping water in his hands and splashing it into his face, lazily brushing his teeth. He gazed back at his reflection in the water-stained mirror, satisfied with the restful undertones flowing beneath his features. He roughly dried his face off with a towel hanging over the edge of the sink, admiring himself in the mirror: skin soft to the touch and freshly exfoliated, lips deep red at the center like a delicate rose petal; eyes glistening with morning sunlight, gilded with smoky quartz and backlit by a deep, cool brown. While he traced his calloused fingertips lightly over the stubble of his jaw, Aran could not help his wandering mind as his musings congregated at one collective thought: _I am beautiful_. And the morning seemed to agree as the wind gusted in through the window screen, scattering gentle butterfly kisses across the skin of his cheek.

Aran’s lips curved up into a delicate smile as he finished freshening up, throwing on a pair of shorts and walking out onto the cold tile of the kitchen to find his breakfast portion left on the table, lukewarm but still full of love. He slipped on his shirt but left it unbuttoned, stepping out onto the back porch to stretch and sip at his tea. The dewy freshness of summer morning could be felt slipping from time’s grasp, the heat of the sun beginning to pervade everything beneath it. It could be felt even from beneath the cool shade of the eave, and Aran was now thinking of Kita, and was thinking of making some iced tea. And suddenly Kita was walking onto the porch and was feeling that small breathlessness you feel when something familiar is hit by the sunlight just right and reminds you of its beauty, and Kita smiles and steps close, his hands trailing their way up over Aran’s shoulders, wrists overlapping at the back of his neck. He plants a light kiss onto Aran’s cheek and listens for the quiet sigh that escapes his lips.

“Good morning.” The words were whispered soft into Aran’s collarbone, followed by a deep breath that spread down his skin and across his chest like warm goosebumps. Everything felt both familiar and strangely dream-like: for Aran, days off always meant gentle reminiscence and reflection. These mornings spent with Kita were laid down gently in the fields of his own mind, his own love. _Familiar and dream-like_ , he thought as he pulled back and gazed into the cool, subdued brown of the eyes that gazed back into his own.

“G’morning.” Aran’s lips, still plagued with the weight of sleep, found themselves loosely outlining the phrase, his thumb moving Kita’s bangs aside to plant a love-filled kiss on his forehead. He smelled like dirt and sweat; he smelled like the earth itself and Aran loved that he was already full of these things only halfway through the morning. They pulled apart and Aran’s eyes lovingly followed Kita as he entered the house and began rummaging through the junk drawer in the kitchen. Aran picked his book up off the table and sat down in his favorite chair, wetting his fingertips and skimming through until he found the page he had dogeared, picking up where he left off. He began to drift off into his own world and was only brought back to reality by a gentle hand on his forearm as Kita walked by, placing the tray of breakfast food on the porch table and planting a light kiss on his cheek. _I made it for ya so don’t forget to eat it_ : his eyes read as he smiled softly and headed back out along the skinny dirt path into the distance of his rice paddies, some tool tucked away into the palm of his left hand. Aran smiled in response, a light laugh escaping his nose as he laid his book face-down on the table and picked up his chopsticks, a whisper of gratitude escaping his lips before he shoveled a healthy portion of rice into his mouth.

\- - -

The sun burned high in the atmosphere, the dry heat of noon spreading over Kita’s skin quick as wildfire. There was no escape, no refuge other than the wide brim of his hat; each potential breeze caught in a web, slowed and stopped until the heat became a trap, an oven with the door shut.

This wasn’t the kind of humid heat that filled your lungs with thick air and coated your skin in moisture; this was a heat that cut through you like a knife, blade freshly sharpened. It manifested itself in the sweat dripping between his shoulderblades and down the crease of his spine; the slow, dull pain seizing his brain with an iron grip. His legs were fully soaked up to the knees, drenched in a mud that cooled his lower body, grounding him.

Farming was never quite the same old practice, much went into it: pest control, water control, change in climate, gas emissions. Each day, month, year brought its own unique set of challenges. Today it was the heat and the weeds; the blisters forming on the insides of his palms, premature callouses; the dull ache seizing his lower back coupled with the dagger of pain buried deep in the inner crease of his right eye.

But with each rise and fall of sun came another drop of beauty, another new sprout shooting out from within the earth; the gentle, nondescript pull and tug of the water surfaced around his calves. Each grain of his own efforts pulsed through the branches of the tree he could call his own life; and sometimes fruit was harvested, sometimes a flower bloomed. _If you look hard enough, the leaves carry just as much beauty as the flower petals_ ; Kita wiped the sweat from his forehead and plunged his hands back into the water, fingers deftly wrapping around the base of a sprout:

_If you bite deep enough, the root is just as sweet as the fruit._

Aran entered the clearing and his feet were on near solid rock, his head scalded beneath white-hot sunlight. He stretched out his arms and _the heat is nearly tangible today, huh?_ His pack was cast aside in the shade as he approached the cliff’s edge, gazing out upon the valley below in awe. 

No matter how many times Aran came up here, these feelings never changed: his heart still swelled with love when he gazed out upon not only the valley, but Kita’s farmland; his calves and forearms still quivered with nerves when he took a step too close to the edge. Up here, something different was in the air, something sharper and clearer, the wind that was absent down in the valley migrating up towards the peak, rustling the loose ends of Aran’s clothes. He stood near the edge, stretching his arms out like wings, reaching the span of his fingers up into the sky’s great expanse; feeling that strength, that pride of reaching new heights. Making the national team, feeling both appreciated and never quite appreciated enough—always appreciated enough with Kita, always appreciated enough with himself, in the grand but quiet of his own body. The wind rushed through his arms and he could’ve taken flight, dangerously close to the edge now, lungs nearly freefalling in his chest.

But he was grounded: in control. His feet were on solid ground and he combed his fingers through the wind, air running like sand through the spaces in each hand. _Flying not as a bird, but as myself, in my own body_ —in control of the prep, the jump, the spike. Aran felt whole within himself and _free_ as the sun shined down _hot_ onto his shoulders and forearms, taking in a deep breath; the wind entering his lungs and the heat seeping into his muscles and bones: the sun at high noon, the clouds bearing no coverage.

\- - -

Kita was done with the day’s work. The sun laid itself like a blanket over his handiwork in all its rich yellow glory; hung low in the sky like a fruit ripe from the tree, turning the stilled water of the rice paddies into pools of golden honey. Everything was swathed in this, too sticky to get out of and too sweet to ever wish to; the slow and saccharine rot of apples along the orchard floor, laid thick on his tongue and encrusted into the cuffs of his pants.

Kita stood in the small basin by his back door, carefully washing his legs. He found solace in the act of changing into a clean pair of shorts; pouring water by hand over his calves, letting its efforts combine with his calloused palms, rinsing away the day’s work. Digging the heel of his thumb into a patch of sun-dried mud, his brain letting the sounds around him fade out into the background as he turned his focus towards his dirt-filled pores and steady breathing. As he finished, he let all his senses leak back into the foreground of his awareness, somehow feeling more connected to them: A small cog in the great tick of the day’s clock.

He dried his legs off with the towel he kept draped over the side of the short fence, quietly padding in through the back door and sighing gently as he dropped his belongings to the floor. Aran looked up from his laptop and smiled, shining like some heavenly sunray, closing his computer with a light snap and making his way over to Kita. His hands found themselves wrapping around Kita’s waist and up the back of his shirt, fingertips tracing featherlike patterns along his spine, a familiar and homelike shiver running through Kita’s arms as Aran breathed into his neck. Kita smelled like dirt and sweat and grass and everything good about the earth, his back coated in the light film of a long day’s work. He laid his arms over Aran’s shoulders, hands settling on the back of his neck, thumbs rubbing softly over the crease at the base of his skull.

“Mmm, good afternoon,” Aran hummed into Kita’s neck, placing light kisses over the skin from his collarbone up to the start of his jaw. Kita’s smile widened as he pulled back, cupping Aran’s face in his hands and gazing over his features, warm and lax with relaxation. Aran smile, the apples of his cheeks perking up and Kita couldn’t help but reach out and fondly pinch them, smiling in return.

“Good afternoon, beautiful.” And Aran beamed because they both knew it; the sun’s golden rays seeping through the cracks of the back window, dressing the skin of Aran’s bare shoulders in flakes of gold, in small fragments of the day’s love. Kita’s fingers gently tangled themselves into the hem of Aran’s shirt and then released, fingertips lightly grazing the skin of his stomach underneath the fabric as Kita walked into the kitchen.

“Want to get dinner started?” Aran nodded and hummed in approval as Kita turned on the tap and lathered up his hands with soap, beginning to scrub away at the worst of the day’s grime. It was incredibly grounding—the feeling of touching your own hands with a strong intent behind each motion, each subtle press of the thumb and crease of the palm cloaked in meaning.

The warmth of Aran’s body was pressed up against Kita’s side as he came over to the sink and took the bar of soap into his own hands, slightly wetting his palms under the faucet. Kita, whose hands were now clean and freshly scrubbed, let his body move on its own as he wrapped his arms around Aran’s waist and down his arms, taking his hands into his own smaller ones: lathering them up with the gentle circular motions of his thumbs, scrubbing his fingertips on his own calloused palms and taking the time to thoroughly clean off each finger. A deep warmth flooded Aran from his gut up into his cheeks, filling his chest with a delicate tingle resembling that of a space heater—no, a radiator. The soft fuzzy crackle of an old record player; the heels of Kita’s calloused thumbs massaging into the tender muscle of his palms as the tap water ran over their skin, far more than warm but far less than scalding. He melted into Kita’s touch, humming softly in satisfaction as Kita leaned in closer, resting his head on Aran’s shoulder as he gazed fondly at their hands, watching the water wash away the day’s toils as small droplets beaded on the wrists and forearms.

It was Kita who turned off the tap, unwrapping his arms from around Aran and grabbing the hand towel, facing Aran as he dried off his hands. Aran watched Kita as he contemplatively patted his skin dry: he watched Kita as he laid the hand towel over his shoulder, taking each of his hands into his own and kissing them one by one; lips delicately fond over the soft skin of his knuckles. Pausing briefly, nearly undetectable as his lips gently brushed over the sensitive skin of his wrists; looking up into Aran’s eyes and waiting for permission, confirmation, letting his eyelids drop the moment he nodded as his lips messily pressed into him, nose squishing against the heel of his hand. Aran’s chest filled with warmth as he watched Kita _care for him_ , his hand gently guiding him by the wrist until his palm and fingers were caressing Kita’s cheek as he lazily kissed the pad of his thumb; first one hand, then the other. The fondness reached his head and filled it with a tranquil static, feeling dizzy and warm at the core and suddenly very aware of his own breathing.

Then Kita was moving his hands down and taking them into his own, giving them a light squeeze and Aran a loving smile before heading to the fridge. And suddenly Aran’s hands were full of vegetables, and he was handed a knife and a cutting board as Kita began rinsing the rice and preparing the steamer. And as Aran began slicing the onions, the mushrooms and greens, he let his mind drift off into the age-old questions: _How does our love feel so naturally domestic? When did our love become this way? When did our friendship transform into the love we share today?_ And then there was the small of Kita’s back as he stood at the stove, adorned by fraying apron strings wrapped twice around the waist, familiar and comfortable and incredibly grounding; and Aran shoved those questions aside because they just didn’t make enough sense.

By the time they had finished making and eating dinner, the last sliver of fiery sun was nearly slipping behind the mountaintop. Aran sat humble and peacefully quiet on their back porch as the sensations of summer surrounded him; overwhelming him, washing through him like some great wave. This was the time of year that everything began to fall slowly and gradually; gravity intensified, condensed by the thick heat of summer, a sponge full of water. Aran held this sponge, felt its weight heavy in the hand; balanced his book light and open on the flat of his thigh. Kita sipping at his tea, steam billowing into his face because _tea is best sipped straight from the pot_ ; and all Aran could feel was the thick sound of crickets laid over his skin and the sharp, white-hot blade of imaginary tea sinking down his throat and into his stomach. Kita’s lips caressing the rim of the cup never quite as soft as they had caressed the thin skin of Aran’s wrists, right over the same veins that carried his blood into his heart. He looked down at his hands, small and capable and full of said blood.

_Love is all that the day brings. Love is the constant rise and fall of the sun, burning in the sky at high noon, hanging low upon the horizon in all its crimson glory. Love is the feeling these beings elicit deep inside me, the singular constant in life: I will never be able to describe it, so I don’t force myself to._

_My love blossoms inside me like a flame that can never be put out: I don’t try to stifle it, I don’t try to smother it for it will burn through cloth after cloth after cloth. My love fills me with happiness and melancholy and passion but no sorrow. My love burns through my veins deep into the center of my spirit and undergoes a metamorphosis of sorts, taking flight as it leaks into my body and mind and floods me with joy. Joy of any and all forms. And I let myself feel it, because I deserve to feel it, through and through: Love never asks the body questions it expects answers to._

A bird flew overhead, drawing Aran from his thoughts with a rustle of feathers. He gazed across the table at Kita, who was gazing out upon the rice fields; face doused in soft blue hues and graced with the delicate red flare of deep sunset. Soon the sun would set beneath the earth’s horizon and Aran would close his book and Kita would bang the mud off his boots one more time before heading back inside; but for now, all the earth’s warmth was stretched out into one thin red line, and Kita’s lips were parted. In his mind’s eye, Aran caught a glimpse of cold air and warm bedsheets; red light leaking through an old window onto those same features, kind and patient and facing the day like an old friend returning home.

And Aran thought he could live this way forever; continually shrugging time off one’s shoulders like rainwater from the skin; Kita would lazily and tactfully sip it from the leaf as though it were the life force. In this life, things would always be this way; and he found solace in this, in the grand spin of it all. The sun was swallowed by the earth beneath their feet and the moon’s apparition was materializing in the deep blue of the upper sky. Aran closed his book and Kita banged the mud off his boots that one last time before entering the house, solid and cooled by day’s last breath.

\- - -

Evening had fallen over the earth like a light summer blanket. The buzzing of insects had developed into a symphony of hums, edges rounded as though deliberately scooped and shaped. Shapes moved in the gentle glow of a summer evening; cloaked in the cool, dark shadows of the east-facing bedroom: they took form in Kita’s legs, gently folded over eachother as he sat on his own bed facing Aran.

Hands tenderly gliding up the skin of Aran’s thighs, thumb heels rubbing into the inner muscle, begging to be welcomed in. Kita’s eyes sunk into Aran’s like a stone, dragged deep down to the lake bed and swallowed like a pill. Aran welcomed the deep, welcomed that plunge as he let his legs fall open, letting Kita crawl forward and settle between them. Legs wrapped purposefully around both waists, pulling eachother closer together. Kita let his hands travel up the muscles of Aran’s back, lukewarm palms against his hot skin, the fire that he would let burn him: he buried his face into the crook of Aran’s neck, lips parting as hushed words flowed into Aran’s collarbone like wine from the pitcher.

“Breathe with me, okay?” Aran swallowed and nodded, letting himself drift into Kita’s touch, natural and comfortable. Kita placed his hands flat on Aran’s chest; thumbs congregating at the crease, rubbing small and steady lines into him while Aran’s arms draped gently over Kita’s shoulders, playing the with delicate skin between his shoulderblades. Kita brought his head up to face Aran and Aran held his gaze, falling into that deep forest of oak with no hesitation. Kita let his lips fall slack and took in a slow breath, Aran following in suit, trying to mimic his movements: his hand travelling down to settle on Kita’s waist as they both exhaled together, relaxing into the touch.

Kita understood how this worked; lovemaking with Aran. There was no finish line, no timer set: the only thing they took the time to care about was feeling good together. Kita exhaled, holding his breath out for just a moment, asychronizing their breathing as the energy surrounding them grew dense and heavy. Aran was so incredibly close to Kita now, hot air dancing across the sensitive skin of his lips, a heavy burn hanging low in his gut, hands becoming a little more desperate; travelling up and down Kita’s thighs to relieve the tension, fingers and palms massaging into the muscle as though wading through water. Their pace was set: breathing eachother in, their movements liquefying as their bodies began to weave together; pulling eachother closer, chests touching now, generating the warmth that slowly melted at Aran’s skin, small beads of sweat dripping down from his neck and onto Kita’s shoulders.

Kita didn’t need to say that Aran was beautiful; Aran could read it written in the darks of his eyes, could feel it hanging on the soft bed of his lips like some internal prayer. He felt it in each inhale and exhale and in each soft drag of his calloused fingertips across the surface of his skin, not trying to reach any deeper than that surface because _he’s already doing that with each glance_ , Aran thought. Each sweep of Kita’s eyes over his body and face and lips melted into some resonant, warm glow; as though he were reaching deep inside him and scraping his substance like honey from the comb. It wasn’t until Kita’s teeth sunk fondly into the skin of his neck that Aran realized how much his hands had been roaming over the skin of Kita’s back, clutching at whatever excess skin and fat was available. Aran was breathing hot and heavy now, hands weaving into Kita’s hair as he pulled him up and in, teeth nearly clashing as their lips meshed together. Kita lightly chuckled into Aran’s mouth and everything about him was just so _intoxicatingly familiar_ , and Aran was tightening the hand in his hair and rendering him quiet, Kita’s lips melting like syrup over his own. Kita lifted himself up onto his knees, settling back down over Aran’s waist; lightly grinding into him, hot skin against hot skin as Aran hummed softly into his mouth. Kita separated their lips, catching his breath and holding Aran lightly by the chin, thumb pushing into the soft of his lips.

“Tell me exactly how you want it.” Kita’s eyes were sharp, pupils blown wide and dark in the faint glow of night. Aran’s hands were on his waist, thumbs digging into Kita’s pelvis as he gripped the fat of his hips, leaning forward to kiss the corner of his jaw; teeth gently grazing the skin under the velvet of soft lips, the near-silent citrus of ink tentatively revealed by warm lamplight.

“I want to keep looking at you,” Words haphazardly nestled into the crook of Kita’s neck and sloppily punctuated with an ellipsis of kisses messily strung over the edge of his jaw, voice lowered just beneath a whisper. “And I don’t want to look away. I want to look into your eyes while you cum.” Kita stilled, another kiss placed over the gland of his throat. “Is that okay?” Kita nodded profusely, holding back a quiet moan and inching forward so they were nearly flush against eachother, looking closely at Aran who was looking closely back at him. Draping his arms lovingly over Aran’s shoulders as he continued to grind up against him, both of them hard and just barely slipping over eachother; the space between their lips carefully cupping the moment in its hands as though it were something that shouldn’t be handled, hot breath quietly leaking fuel into the fire. Aran reached up, lightly grabbed Kita’s wrist and guided it gently down between them, bringing up his other hand to caress his cheek.

“Is this okay?” Aran guided Kita’s hand to wrap partly around his cock and partly around his own; resting his own hand in the reverse position, the bumps of his palm soft against Kita’s cock as his head dropped into the crook of Aran’s shoulder at the contact, warm and pleasurable and relaxed.

“Yes, yes yes yes,” Kita nearly whined into Aran’s collarbone as he began to lightly move his hand, wrist loose as he drew a heavy sigh from somewhere deep down in Aran’s gut, all the way up through the small parting of his lips. Aran swallowed the lump in his throat and temporarily regained his composure, his spare hand reaching up to guide Kita’s head up from off his shoulder, looking into his eyes, pupils blown wide, miles underground over deep brown irises.

“Please, stay with me.” Aran breathed out, beginning to move his hand over Kita at the same pace so that they were both feeling the same sensations. Kita’s eyelids dropped heavy as he just barely kept them open, eyes on Aran, over his lips and cheeks and his eyebrows knitted in concentration. _You’re cute_ , Kita wanted to say, but was cut short by a higher-pitched moan that escaped from somewhere up behind his nose; catching him off-guard, hand flying to cover his mouth. Aran caught his wrist and brought it back to lay over his shoulder again, his gaze moving dangerously fond over his lips and chest as it rose and fell—always trailing back up to the eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” His tongue darted out and briefly wetted his lips, sharply inhaling as Kita’s wrist turned just right and his free hand was petting Kita’s back; the soothing touch of fingertips calloused to a certain degree of smoothness, running up and down Kita’s weather-worn skin. His palm travelled up to the back of Kita’s head, heel of his hand rested against the base of his neck as his fingers wove into his hair, gently massaging the scalp. “Can you cum for me? Are you ready?” Kita whined and his eyebrows knitted and Aran was watching him and he felt so _exposed_ but so _comfortable_.

Kita paused for a moment, Aran pausing with him; his heart was too full. Then he quickly nodded, exhaling the energy through pursed lips as he tried to keep his muscles relaxed. Kita picked up pace and a moan fell from Aran’s lips, deep and low; it could’ve been a growl if it hadn’t been so damn _soft_ , Kita thought. Aran quickened his pace to match Kita’s and Kita nearly keeled over; his body melting into Aran’s arm, wrapped up around his back, fingers still tangled into his hair—closing into a fist, a light pressure tugged from the crook of his skull. Kita was incredibly close and still watching Aran, eyebrows knitted and face contorted in pleasure, beads of sweat gathering at his temples as his eyes temporarily closed. Aran’s thumb swept over his head and Kita openly moaned, not wanting to take his eyes off Aran; no longer caring about holding anything in, lower chest heaving with each breath. Aran could feel that low buzz burning deep in his gut, building and building as he opened his eyes and looked back at Kita, gaze open wide and full of something indescribable.

“Aran, I’m going to cum.” His voice was soft and feeble, consonants slurred and vowels borderline saccharine and Aran was nodding and looking eagerly into his eyes, small praises falling from his lips high and soft and loving as Kita melted, eyelids fluttering and lips falling slack and open as he gripped the nape of Aran’s neck; thumb rubbing fondly into his skin in a way that made Aran’s heart fold twice over itself as he came undone, sighing deep and heavy, nearly sing-song as his eyelids briefly dropped over his eyes. Before he could even open them again Kita was already pushing him back gently into the mattress, letting him relax as he tenderly kissed over his chest, his collarbones, his neck and jaw and face; finally settling on his lips, soft as silk and lax as honey, sealed like a promise never spoken aloud.

They enjoyed taking their separate showers. Aran took his in the small bathroom with the door and window closed shut, filling it up with steam until the air felt thick and heavy and he felt one with the atmosphere around him, his own sweat mixing with the condensation and all being washed away by the constant stream of water. Fire is transformative, so Aran let the burning hot water run over his body until his skin felt raw and itchy; turning off the tap and patting himself dry with a towel, emerging from the bathroom feeling aware and alive. Rebirth; a change in chemical compound. His old day-worn skin shedding like a cocoon, freeing his lungs like butterfly’s wings. Aran was lightheaded and hot to the touch, but felt light and free from deep within relaxed muscles.

Kita preferred to bathe outdoors, breathing in the August air, watching through the cracks in the wooden walls of his outdoor shower as the fireflies wove between the dark blades of the trees. He let the cool water trickle down his skin like a summer rain, washing away the day’s occurrences with generic shampoo and barley soap; sighing softly when he reached the point of satisfaction and turned the spicket ‘til it squeaked, shutting the water off. Feet sliding into old sandals, traveling back down the trodden path, chilled and half-softened in the evening’s humid drawl. The side door opened and warm, decadent yellow light flooded into the delicate cornflower of the air, a moth hurriedly fluttering by the skinny window. Kita let the light saturate his skin as he entered the house, closing the door quietly behind him, sealing the warmth within.

\- - - 

Night encroached upon evening as a welcome intruder, its wide arms spilling obsidian ink over the rich blue palette of the sky. The air teeming with some odd newfound energy, the warmth of day translated from light to sound as the chirping of frogs floated along the rivers and streams of stars, up into the ever-approaching tenebrous night where all became a dream. 

Kita lay in bed in the partial darkness, enveloped in a dream of hazel eyes glazed over, soft and sweet as molasses in the moonlight. Aran’s arms were wrapped around him and one of his hands was playing absentmindedly with his hair and Kita felt so incredibly _lucky_. He felt lucky as he gazed back on his years, his eyes now glazed over with the saccharine recollection of fond memories, caramelized with the gentle passing of time. Aran was stepping into each warm space, each practice and each walk home from school—even now, Aran was purposefully stepping into Kita’s life: visiting nearly every day off, sleeping in his bed, letting his hand sit in his own like a small pebble fit into the palm.

But it was not a race (like the one Kita sees between the duo from Karasuno), not even a shared jog (like the one between Aran’s trainer and the talented man from Aoba Johsai): their love was different. It was their own even-paced stride, a gentle walk alongside one another; companionship spread evenly over life like butter on warm toast. Kita watched as Aran’s own thoughts ran across his features like paint on water, and wished for nothing more than to hold onto this moment with an iron grip, to cling to this life. To let the butter melt and seep into the bread, porous and warm as he reached his hand out and let his fingertips gently guide Aran’s lips to his own.

This time it was Aran who chuckled, who felt as though his own sentence had been answered, nearly smothered by the softness of it all if it hadn’t been for Kita delicately separating their lips, pupils blown wide and cheeks flushed as he tucked his head into Aran’s chest, deeming that moment finite. Aran wanted to laugh in surprise, he wanted to poke fun until he got a flick on the nose but suddenly Kita was pulling him impossibly close and he couldn’t help but feel like this moment was best gently wrapped into his hand and tucked silently into his pocket: safekeeping. Kita nuzzled his cheek into his chest and felt the warmth flow through him as he breathed in and _yeah, that’s Aran_. More memories flooded in, unsolicited and golden orange.

 _Love can be contained within a day_ ; Kita’s body spoke as his fingers traced feather soft along Aran’s shoulder and down his arm, feeling goosebumps slowly rise to the surface of his skin. _Love can be contained within a second. My love rests simply in my own hands; small and purposeful, embellishing the things I touch like the leftover finger paint of childhood._ His hand reached the bottom of his arm and he wrapped his palm around Aran’s, taking his hand into his own.

_Love is neither the seed nor the hands, but the action of the hands pushing the seed beneath the soil and lightly covering it. Love is the earth bringing nutrients to the seed and the motion of the sprout slowly breaking through the shell and springing out from the dirt. Love is growth and harvest; consumption and rot. Love is rebirth._

Aran hummed and repositioned himself, turning slightly so he could see the top of Kita’s head, curling up the arm he was laying on to play with his hair.

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” He mumbled fondly into the pillow, watched as the glossiness in Kita’s eyes sharpened when he looked up, edges of his energy quietly blurred; his gaze timeless, aged like a fine wine.

Kita didn’t say anything. He looked into Aran’s eyes and watched as his expression changed, as his gaze shifted from fond to amused to interested: his lips travelled up the soft and familiar skin of Aran’s neck, barely a millimeter away from brushing over him, breath light and hot and loving. He paused right beneath his ear as though hesitating for a moment, then continued up to his face; the tender caress of a warm cheek, undertones of crimson flooding beneath warm skin as Kita looked into Aran’s eyes, now barely able to make out the soft hazel in the darkness. He shifted so he was sitting on top of Aran, leaning over him: Kita easily could’ve kissed him, but he chose instead to gently cup his face in his hands, lovingly scattering feather-light butterfly kisses over his cheeks, breath impossibly softer on his skin. Aran felt toasty and comfortably lightheaded; basking in the glow of Kita’s intimacy, the apples of his cheeks garnished with the light buzz of fondness. Kita pulled back; close and centered, gazing over the edges of Aran’s face, delicately illuminated by some deep, inner moonlight. Aran heard him loud as day,

“Goodnight, Aran.” Kita’s voice, a fine ribbon woven through the obscure, scattered like long-since-forgotten droplets of water over blades of grass in early morning. Everything in the foreground grew noticeably quiet; the darkness wrapped up gently in a blanket of locusts and crickets, by an arm Aran could only describe as the shelter of their own love.

“Goodnight, Shin.” Aran wrapped his hand around the back of Kita’s neck, gently guiding his lips to his forehead; then the bridge of his nose, then the tip. He paused right over his lips, letting his gaze hang soft beneath Kita’s features, muted in the darkness: the soft, dark luminance of the ocean in the dead of night. He drew Kita impossibly closer so that the skin of their lips was barely touching and stayed there for a moment, their love dangling between them like an unspoken confession, sealed by the touch of their own lips as Aran closed the gap between them, soft and gentle and warm. Kita’s lips clung to his own, lax and loving, comfort flowing through both bodies at low tide. 

Kita broke the kiss, his soft smile the crescent moon hanging low in Aran’s sky, slowly sliding off Aran’s chest and back beside him, legs remaining tangled up in his own. Cuddling back into him, he could feel the weight of sleep begin to lay itself over his body. Kita pulled Aran close, breathing him in _(Aran is here.)_ and letting his mind and body drift comfortably into the void. This was the sweet dessert, the small punctuation at the end of the sentence—the back cover of the book, connected to the morning’s front page by the frayed binding of dream. Kita smiled against Aran’s chest and welcomed this dream with open arms, for it meant welcoming the next day’s variance of dewdrops, variance of sunrise and sunset. Sleep came naturally.

The heavy arm rested over Aran’s side; Kita’s head tucked comfortably beneath his chin, his warm breath soft and steady against his chest while he sunk into the doze of a well-earned slumber. Aran sat patiently on the brink of rest and sleep, eyelids heavy and lips naturally parted. As he drifted and tumbled softly over the edge, Aran could pick out but one physical sensation: Kita’s thumb subconsciously rubbing against the small of his spine—the tiniest, most undetectable motion, amplified by his deep state of relaxation. He was filled with the warmth of a fireplace in late December, coats and hats hung loosely on the coat rack and the first sip of hot buckwheat tea sinking deep into his chest like a stone. For among all the hesitant wishes and prayers, among the countless warm households Aran had walked by and envisioned Kita in the windows of—there was the unbreakable gossamer thread: sometimes taut, sometimes lax, but always connected. An unspoken compromise buried by hand beneath soil; the never-ending dance of longing and satisfaction.

Aran sunk into sleep like he had sunken into love: slow and fast, warm and comfortable. The day’s efforts melted into the night’s restful contemplation, and all was quiet and peaceful. 

\- - - 

Darkness settled into the earth like dried pavement: solid, heavy and unbreakable. Not brittle but placid and unyielding: not polished but rather smoothed over by the river of time; each rise and fall of sun another current pulsing against its riverbanks, each moment another drop in the vast ocean of life. The stars, the lungs of the night sky, breathing into the quiet. The only perceptible movement being the trees blowing in the wind, motionless in comparison to the quiet spin of it all.

The great persistent tick echoing up past the trees, beyond the few clouds travelling across the heavenly expanse; shattering through the stratosphere, its imperceptible layer of glass scattered wide and thin, feigned stars dangling temptingly beneath true ones. That true light, old in the way you could feel its ghostly breath tickle your neck as it passes by you in the dark – unseen but felt. Like the air from within a chest older than time itself, a weighted blanket laying itself upon the earth below; a heavy mist that settled deep into the lungs, a dense fog that cleared the eyes beneath closed eyelids.

But just as the sun always rose in the east and set in the west, the weight of Aran Ojiro’s arm was bound to linger on Kita’s chest as he quietly slid out of bed in the coldest hours of the morning; the soft warmth of Kita Shinsuke’s fingertips were bound to gently dance along the small of Aran’s back before drifting into peaceful slumber. Down below, far removed from the firmament, their two small hands brushed against eachother and lingered comfortably within the parameters of a moment; eternal, kind, and quiet.

The earth was asleep.


End file.
